


The Only Exception

by Shadowstar



Series: Love Beside Me [4]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Aww, Conversations, F/M, Fluff, Leslie is a smart woman, M/M, Multi, Sleepy Cuddles, Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Use Your Words, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6763024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowstar/pseuds/Shadowstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation with Lee, lunch with Bruce, and cuddles with Alfred. At least Jim is <i>starting</i> to get somewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Exception

**Author's Note:**

> A little later than I would have liked it, but I got caught up in watching Orphan Black. Also, I was apparently over-exaggerating how long it had been since I'd last written something; it was only a little over 2, not over 3.
> 
> Unbeta'ed. If you haven't noticed a pattern, yet, I'm using song lyrics for titles; this time is Paramore because that's what I was listening to on repeat for the last portion of the chapter. Also, if it wasn't clear, this **will** be going AU rather shortly, beyond the relationship differences.

It feels almost like he lives at the precinct; Jim has come to terms with this idea, that it’s a cop thing and not just a, “Jim Gordon is hiding from what he discovered almost two days ago in a hospital room at Gotham General” _thing_.

Yeah. He’s still thinking about it. Throughout the whole search for information to use against Loeb, to figure out what to do to keep the man from ruining _everyone’s_ lives at G.C.P.D., it had been on his mind. Nearly at the forefront, in fact. So much so that Harvey had yelled at him, several times, looking about ready to hit him upside the head to get his attention.

Jim still isn’t sure why his partner _hadn’t_. It’s Harvey Bullock, after all.

But it’s two days later, and he finds himself finally closing up everything, getting everything together. Ready, in fact, to finally face the music and talk to Lee, to Alfred, or perhaps _neither_ as he would prefer.

And he was never going to get that lucky, really, because Lee is there, wearing her lab coat, looking determined as she makes her way to him through the bullpen.

“Hey,” he greets softly, giving her a warm smile of greeting, earning a snort from his partner that he wholly, summarily ignores.

“Hey, yourself,” she says, warmly in return, pressing a kiss to his cheek, her hand reaching out and grasping his forearm, giving it a warm, gentle squeeze. Warm and sweet and so very _Lee_ and dear _GOD_ is he screwed. Because while her sweet smile is warm, her brown eyes are sharp, _knowing_.

“Want to grab some coffee on your way out?” Her raised eyebrows say all that he doesn’t want to hear from her words.

Dammit. Lee was first, apparently.

“On his way out? Are you—“ Harvey starts, annoyed, only to be silenced by a _look_ from Lee. Her eyes are sharp, not dissimilar to the way that Alfred’s had been when Jim had been shoo’ed out of the hospital room to go to work. It was a look that said that she was not going to hear any arguments, and that it would be easier for everyone involved if things were simply _done_. “Right. Of course. He’s on his way out. Sure, just leave your ol’ partner with all of the paper work; not like it’s the _first time_ …”

The grumbling fades as Lee tugs him along, slipping her arm around his, pressing it close to her body, very nearly breaking every rule they’d set up as far as PDA goes. But, oh, no one can argue with _that_ look, as was evident by the way Jim lets her _drag_ him along. Finally, they reach the rather dismal cafeteria that was located in the bowels of the precinct building, and Lee orders them both coffees—his to go, he notices—before leading him to a table.

“So,” she says simply once they’ve settled in and had a moment to sip at their drinks.

“So…?” he prompts, hoping that she’ll talk about the ‘case’ that he and Bullock just wrapped up, talk about some new puzzle that Ed has approached her with, the latest gossip she’s heard from Kristen, something, _anything_ but what he’s sure will come next.

He really, really doesn’t want to think about it. Had done a pretty damn good job of “forgetting” about it while he had been working. Or, at least, not quite paying attention to the issue as much.

…Right. He really wasn’t that great at lying to himself, and definitely not any good at lying to Lee.

She lets him hang for a long moment, seeming to savor the awful crap that they call passable coffee in this place, before she finally sighs, giving him a long look. Gentle and reproachful, very nearly disappointed, and it makes him _squirm_.

“C’mon, Jim. Don’t be _stupid_. I _know_ you figured it out,” she tells him, chides him, gentle and sweet, warmly amused all at once. And, hell, at least one of them was sure about this. Was good at figuring this shit out, and it definitely wasn’t _him_.

There was a reason he had been so surprised that he and Barbara had lasted as long as they had.

“What am I supposed to say?” he demands after a moment of silence, of trying to put into words how damn _confused_ he remains. Because he was confused, and it hadn’t gone away, even with the knowledge that he’d gained like a two-by-four to the face.

At least it hadn’t taken a concussion to figure it out.

“You could say that it’s true, and that you’re going to talk to him about it,” Lee informs him, quirking an eyebrow at him.

He lets out a disbelieving breath, something bordering on a scoff, even as he shakes his head. His eyes study her face, head tilted in disbelief. And he has to know, has to _ask_ , because _Christ_ was she taking it well that, apparently, he was also in love with someone else.

“You’re taking this awfully well. Any particular reason?” he demands, suspicious, eyes narrowed now as he studies her.

A pinched look settles over her pretty features, brown eyes narrowing and red-painted lips pressing into a thin, dangerous line. And _fuck_ if he doesn’t realize that he might have made a _huge_ error. But rather than blowing up, she takes a breath after glaring at him for a long moment, closing her eyes. Then she opens them, and she’s smiling again, tight and annoyed, but still, smiling.

“Yes, Jim. I’m taking this well because I love you.” She reaches out, even as he startles, looking around; he needn’t have worried, though, because the cafeteria is almost empty. “And I know that being jealous is no use. I know that this is something that you have to work out.” She holds up a hand when he opens his mouth to speak, shaking her head sharply. “No. Let me finish, okay? I know you love me, too. But I know you…” Here, she pauses, giving a delicate cough as her eyes flick around the room.

“I know,” he tells her, when she doesn’t begin again immediately. And his voice is rough, even as he lets his own eyes fall closed. But this time, his memories are taking him back to the hospital room, the soft noises of the machines filling his ears like a gunshot ringing. He’s startled into opening his eyes, blinking at her when he feels the press of her small, warm hand against his cheek.

“That look,” she tells him softly, pained, shaking her head. “That’s why it’s okay.”

His brow furrows in confusion, but he can’t disagree with her. He doesn’t know what she sees, and there is a _huge_ part of him that doesn’t even want to dare to think about it.

“When was the last time you heard from Bruce?” she suddenly asks, her hand slipping away to wrap around her disposable cup, curling around the warmth as she takes another sip.

It feels like such a sudden change in gears that he can’t help but stare at her for a long moment. Then it finally clicks and he feels his cheeks and ears warm, feels _awkward_ , and so far beyond grateful, he can’t begin to say.

Christ, when had he gotten so lucky to meet and know and love, _be_ loved, by such a woman?

“Just after the press conference; he called to let me know that he and Alfred were on their way back to Wayne Manor,” he tells her, smiling at her, warm and soft, hoping she understands just how grateful he is to her. That she understands, even if he doesn’t. Doesn’t know what to say, what to do, but he’ll figure it out. He has to, if only because he wants to see that warm look on her face again. The one that she’d had just a moment ago.

“Well, then, you should go calling,” she urges, bemused by her own choice of words, her fingers twitching against her cup. Then she pauses, and she’s reaching out again, and their hands are curling together right there on the tabletop, neither of them caring for the moment just how _public_ it is.

“Jim, you should know that whatever your decision, I support it,” she tells him, soft and urgent.

And it’s like he’s making some decision that will affect the whole world. Only, it won’t be the _whole_ world that will be affected, just theirs. Their own little dark-bright bit of it.

“I don’t even know what to do about it,” he tells her, helplessly, shrugging to emphasize the point.

Her eyebrows shoot up, something sharp and amused in her eyes, and he knows immediately that he’s in trouble. He will probably end up wanting to squirm into the ground beneath the building in a few moments.

“Does that mean you’re--…?” She doesn’t completely finish the question, cognizant of the fact that they are, in fact, in a place where  _t_ _hat_ wouldn’t exactly be a welcome thing to discuss, let alone be true. He can’t help but blanch anyway, shooting a sharp look around from habit.

And no, really, he’s not avoiding her face, not avoiding the way his cheeks heat up again. Christ, what was it about Lee that could make him blush like this? It wasn’t like he was a blushing virgin or some such other nonsense, for crying out loud! But, no, the question had been so very out of left field, and so very _Lee_ that it’s made his face heat and he _definitely_ wants to squirm into the floor, to let the ground open up and swallow him whole.

“ _No_!” he finally hisses in response, horribly tempted to stick his tongue out at her. Especially when his answer is greeted by a warm, throaty chuckle that goes straight to the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, really?” she shoots back, lips twitching, threatening to widen into a sharp, teasing grin. But she doesn’t, and what he wouldn’t give to have the time and be in a place to be able to kiss that look right off her face.

“Yes, _really_ ,” he sighs in return with a roll of his eyes, shaking his head, taking a drink of his own coffee, now that it’s cooled. His answer earns him another throaty chuckle, another shot of warmth going through him. But the warmth fades, leaving behind the feeling of confusion again, sobering everything.

“Seriously, Lee. I don’t…I don’t know what I’m doing, where to even _start_ with any of this.” The laughter fades, and when he looks to her, her face is compassionate, open. So, so gentle, knowing just how out of his depth he is.

“It’s something we’ll have to discuss later, when we’re all available and not poked full of holes,” she tells him, knowing that there’s enough information there between them that there’s no possible room for confusion, but not enough for the common passerby to know just what it is they’re talking about.

He frowns, but nods, because he knows this will have to be a far more thorough discussion than what has happened already, someplace far more _private_ than the cafeteria of their place of work. He opens his mouth, too, to ask how he’s supposed to _get_ that far, to begin with, and she seems to have read his mind, understands what he’s about to ask before he even gets that far.

“And you’ll have to talk to the other party, too. You’ll have to be _honest_ ,” she tells him, emphasizing the last, and he finds himself raising both eyebrows at her, sputtering in protest.

“Hey, I _am_ —“ She shushes him, cuts off his protest with a look and a squeeze of her hand over his around his cup.

“Jim,” she gently says, just his name, and _damn_ if that doesn’t say more than enough of everything that needs to be said between them. He ducks his head in response, looking at the way their hands curl together.

Unbidden, the memory of his own hand curled around Alfred’s, and the way the older man’s fingers had curled around his, flits through his brain. And suddenly he understands.

“Talk, then we will, okay?” He looks back up at her, her eyes so warm with compassion, warm and understanding, and, _fuck_ he loves this woman.

“I love you,” he has to say it, has to tell her. Because he hadn’t said it nearly enough to Barbara, and God only knows if when he walks out of the building if it’ll be the last time he says it to her. And, hell, it was morbid but he can’t help it.

“I love you, too,” she tells him, full of feeling and honesty, and if they weren’t in public, weren’t sitting on hard benches with a table between them, he would take her into his arms, kiss her, remind her that nothing was going to change between them.

But that… wasn’t entirely true, was it? And he can’t say that it will be a _bad_ change, and he can’t say that it’ll be all okay, because he doesn’t know. And it’s terrifying, scary, and so exhilarating. Blue eyes search her face for a long moment, as though memorizing it, causing her to huff at him, eyes bright and smile wide. Inviting a kiss, just so, and it’s his turn to shake his head and chuckle softly. He breaks his own rule by leaning across the table, pressing a kiss to her inviting lips, warm and lingering, full of promise for _later_.

All too soon, Lee is pulling away, pressing a hand to his chest with a laugh.

“Alright, you. Enough of that. Go, talk, and then _we’ll_ talk,” she urges, making a ‘shoo’ing motion at him. He gives her a bright, boyish grin as he stands from the bench, coming around to press a kiss to her temple.

“Love you. See you later,” he tells her, barely shifting out of the way of her swatting as he moves away. They both share a long look and a chuckle as he takes his coffee and leaves, purpose in his stride.

He does take a moment to go up and let Harvey know that he was taking the car, much to the man’s protests, but he promises to bring it back, so Harvey had no right to actually _protest_. At this point, too, Jim is sure that it was a _token_ protest, more than anything. It is a part of their interactions, their banter. A _ritual_. And it is the little things, the rituals like that, which make his world make sense right now.

Of everything that was going on, at least Harvey is consistent.

The drive to Wayne manor was quiet, and it leaves him time to think. Perhaps far too much time to think, depending on who you talk to, most especially Jim. It leaves him with time to think about what he’s going to do with this situation, what he and Lee talked about. She had had many good points, of course she had. The woman was _smart_ , insightful, and the warmth that had been in her eyes…

She’d known. Somehow, she had _known_ that he was in love with Alfred, before he’d even known, himself. Or, rather, before he’d _acknowledged_ it, at least. Now, he had acknowledged it and Lee had put the ball in his court to do something with. And what he would do, well, that was really a matter of choice and thought and _fuck_ he was thinking too much about the whole situation.

His brain is still going in circles when he finally pulls up to the front of the house, pulling to a stop where he normally parks the car. He finds himself sitting for a long, long time. Well, it at least _feels_ like a long, long time but it ends up being only a few short minutes, just long enough for the sound of the engine cooling down to register.

He can’t help but drag his feet as he gets out of the car and heads towards the front door, rolling his shoulders and his neck to work out any kinks. He knocks once, twice, making sure that the weight of his fist meeting the wood is enough that if Bruce is nearby, the boy will hear him.

He’s starting to raise his hand to knock again after a long moment of waiting for some kind of sign that his knock had been heard, just as the door is opening.

“Hello, Detective,” Bruce greets, blue eyes bright and eager, honestly happy to see him. The boy steps aside, motioning him into the cool dark of the entryway. “It’s good to see you. I hope you’ve been well?”

Jim bites back a smile at the pleasantries that the small talk Bruce is trying to greet him with.

“I am, yeah.” He hesitates a moment before taking a breath. “Sorry for just dropping by like this, I—“

Bruce cuts him off with a genial wave of his hand.

“No, no. It’s okay. You’re just checking to see how we’re doing. It’s appreciated.” There is something almost mischievous in the boy’s eyes, but nothing is said further on the matter.

“I was just about to have lunch; are you hungry?” the boy asks once he’s shown Jim to the study that the boy usually takes his guests in. There is a moment where he thinks about refusing, but his stomach makes a rather loud entreaty for him. Both of them chuckle and Bruce nods. “I’ll be right back, then.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Jim asks, quickly, before the boy can walk out. Bruce simply shakes his head, still smiling, before heading out of the room.

Jim finds himself left alone, once again with his thoughts, but this time turning to other things.

Like the still slightly visible stain on the floor where Alfred must have… Where he…

He can only imagine that night, what happened when Bruce found the remaining member of his family, laying there. Had the perpetrator still been there? Had Bruce been once again spared for the wide-eyed look of a child, face pale with shock and fear? Or had the person, whoever it was, already been gone?

He’s not stupid, despite what some on the force might think. He isn’t so dense as to not recognize, or realize, that Alfred had been _lying_ when he’d said there wasn’t anything else to say about the stabbing. They had _both_ been lying to him when they’d said they didn’t know who did it. Because, hell, he’s seen Alfred fight. He’s seen the way the man protects Bruce. If there had been someone in the house that night, _they_ would have been the ones injured.

Which means, of course, that Alfred—for whatever reason—was protecting the person who had stabbed him. And if that wasn’t ultimately the most frustrating thought he’s ever come across, he doesn’t know what is. Because, hell, don’t they know that he’s trustworthy, by now? That he would, in turn, do everything in his power, down to his last breath, to make sure that Bruce and Alfred were safe?

The thought _stings_ , to put it mildly. To know that he isn’t trusted, to know that there is still much that needs to be said and done to go forward. Because _feelings_ —god help him—were certainly one thing. But trust? Trust was another, entirely, and it has to be earned, maintained. Based on this, he isn’t sure how he will ever be able to get Alfred to trust him, to let him in past walls and barriers erected out of fear and lack of that same trust.

The whole thing is giving him a headache, and making his chest feel tight and heavy and if he could just—

He’s pulled from his thoughts by the sound of careful footsteps behind him, and he turns to find Bruce reentering the room with a tray laden down with glasses of water and two sandwiches. It’s hard not to smile at the sight, even with the heaviness of his thoughts and the feeling in his chest at the moment. He doesn’t dare to offer help, not with the determined look on Bruce’s face telling him that to do so would be a blow to the kid’s ego.

Christ, if the kid was bad now, Jim can only imagine what he’s going to be like in a few short years when full-on teenager-hood hits.

Seeing that he’s been spotted, Bruce smiles, bright as he had been when Jim had first entered the house. He carries the tray over to the small seating area with the long, leather couch that was far, _far_ more comfortable to sit on than first expected.

“I saw the papers the other day; congratulations,” Bruce compliments, practically beaming. And the wideness of that smile has Jim smiling in return, warm and thankful, leaving him to huff out a soft breath.

“Thank you,” he answers in return, honest and genuine, touched that Bruce was keeping an eye out for him in, of all things the papers.

“So what does the president of the policeman’s union do, exactly?” Bruce asks as he begins to take things off the tray that he’d brought in. Jim has the presence of mind to help as much as he can, taking the plate with the sandwich and then the glass of water, holding it until a coaster could be set down.

“Depends on the president,” he returns, watching Bruce’s hands, not looking at the boy just yet. After a moment’s pause, he finally presses himself to ask, “How’s Alfred doing?”

There is a moment’s pause, as though Bruce isn’t entirely sure how to answer that, and more than a little nervous. Most likely, he’s picked up on the tense note hanging under Jim’s words.

“Wh-whinier than I thought,” Bruce says, voice unsteady before evening out. Jim hums an affirmative, unable to keep his lips from twitching at the thought. He’s now watching Bruce more closely, eyes sharp on the boy’s movements. “But he is getting better.”

Who was he trying to convince more? Jim feels that tightness in his chest, remembering the panic in Bruce’s voice on that phone call. The feeling of the world crashing down. He has to remind himself that Alfred is somewhere in the house, somewhere resting, healing and at least partially whole.

“Glad to hear it,” he tells Bruce softly, wondering how he was going to word it. Studying the side of Bruce’s face for a brief moment has him deciding the direct route would be the best course of action.

“You two lied about who stabbed him, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. And the way Bruce freezes, he knows it, knows that he’s been caught.

Bruce’s eyes flicker to him briefly, sharp and with just a hint of uncertainty.

“That’s why you’re here?” He asks, as though pointing out the obvious. Jim ignores the pang of tightness and the way his stomach lurches with nerves at the question, pushing it down, concentrating instead on the conversation at hand. He’d been silent far too long, apparently, because Bruce’s pressing is sharper than before.

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Jim answers, simply, softer than before. Softer than he’d been meaning to, because it was at least a _concern_. Bruce didn’t need to know about the rest, not until it was something that he could discuss with others more closely involved.

Considering the way he’s twisted up over this, he isn’t sure he’s actually going to get that chance. At least, not today; he has a feeling if he tries to back out of it, Lee will skin him alive. Or, rather, not speak to him for a week. He isn’t sure which of the two is worse.

“Did you lie to me?” He prompts again, sterner now. And Bruce hesitates again, looking very much like he wants to say something, but that he’s very torn over. But the boy rallies himself after a long moment, finally turning to look him right in the eye, now.

“No,” Bruce insists, voice still shaky, and Jim shores himself up. Can’t let the boy see how much this is killing him to do this, but he has to. Has to make Bruce see that in order for him to find who did this to Alfred, he has to know the details; the who, hopefully the why. And Jim is _damn_ sure that Bruce knows the answers to those particular questions.

“If I don’t have a description of the culprit, I won’t be able to find him.” And it _would_ be him on the case, he would make damn sure of it. And if the perp got a little roughed up on the way back to the precinct once he was found? Well, the trip was a bumpy one.

Bruce takes a nervous sip of his water, before answering Jim more firmly, this time, “I wish I could help you, detective.”

There is honesty in the boy’s face, and still that _regret_ that nags at him. And then, all at once, it hits Jim why Bruce is lying, why _Alfred_ has asked Bruce to lie.

“Alfred’s planning on going after him on his own. _That’s_ why you lied.” He’s stunned, and exasperated, and it takes everything in him to remain seated next to Bruce, rather than asking the boy where his guardian is so Jim can go try and shake some sense into the foolhardy man.

Like that would help. It would make _Jim_ feel better, at least.

“No.” The denial is soft, guilty, and Jim’s chest is tightening all over again.

“Bruce, look at me,” he urges, gently reaching out and pressing his hand to Bruce’s shoulder again, just as he’d done in the hospital. Offering up comfort, even as he gently nudges the boy to do as he asks. At least Bruce does so, turning to him somewhat reluctantly, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Whatever Alfred is up to, you have to stay out of it,” he tells Bruce, insistent, knowing that—more than likely—Alfred will have said something similar, something to try and keep the boy here and not going off to try and… Do what, play hero? Vigilante? Either way, if he actually did, he was going to get hurt.

And Jim would never forgive himself if he didn’t at least try to talk the boy out of it. But he knows that if Bruce isn’t going to listen to Alfred on this, there’s no way in _hell_ that Bruce is going to listen to him.

“It’s dangerous,” he continues to try, even as Bruce shifts to turn slightly away from him, jaw clenched. _Stubborn_.

“And it isn’t your fight.” The last is at least something that he hopes Bruce will listen to, but so far, given the stubborn set of the boy’s shoulders, his jaw, it was being heard but Bruce just wasn’t listening.

“I cut this bread way to thick, didn’t I.” It was a diversionary tactic, and one that Jim was familiar with, even as he watches Bruce’s hands play with the bread in question.

With a sinking feeling, Jim knows that this was a conversation that was going to be swept aside. For some strange reason, he felt that he’d just lost a monumental battle, and he isn’t sure—not entirely, at least—how to handle it.

“Bruce…” He tries to come up with something to say, anything, to get Bruce to see reason, to see the _logic_ in staying out of it. Whatever _it_ was, anyway.

But he comes up empty, lacking, his chest remaining tight and his stomach sinking, worry clawing at him now. He has to turn away, hoping to hide the way his own jaw tightens. Hoping, too, that his emotions aren’t showing on his face. But he’s proved wrong, then, when Bruce speaks.

“I understand what you’re saying,” Bruce finally says, steady and sure and dashing any hopes that Jim might have had with ending the conversation on a note that would tell him Bruce wasn’t going to do anything dangerous. There’s a note of reassurance there, too, and what more can Jim say to that?

“Okay, then,” he sighs, defeated, letting the topic drop. The apologetic flicker he sees on Bruce’s face doesn’t help the feeling at all. In fact, it only makes it settle into his shoulders more firmly.

There’s another pause, long and heavy, before Bruce is shifting forward, once again glancing at him, and then there’s nothing more to do than to eat. They eat in silence, the heaviness eventually easing up but never quite going away.

Once the sandwiches had been mostly eaten, the silence becomes slightly awkward between them, and Jim is half-tempted to simply scoop up their dishes and the tray and have Bruce lead him to the kitchen, so he can deposit them and then beat a hasty retreat. But he had come for a reason, beyond the one that he’d given to Bruce, one that he knows he has to face or risk losing his nerve. He’s just screwing up his courage—again, to think, him the mighty detective, _scared_ over a little _talk_ —when Bruce finally takes pity on him.

The kid was going to go far.

“You know, Alfred wouldn’t mind,” the kid prompts, looking solemn, bright eyed again. Jim blinks at him, stunned for a moment before huffing, ignoring the warmth in his ears, _willing_ it away.

“Mind what, exactly?” he asks, almost petulantly, cringing immediately once the words have left his mouth. Earning, in turn, a soft laugh from Bruce for it.

_Yeah, adults can be stupid; laugh it up, kid, I’m going to laugh right back, later._

“A visit from you,” Bruce says simply, easily, amused and definitely better than the conversation before they’d eaten.

“If you don’t think I would be bothering him…?”

Bruce doesn’t answer that particular thought verbally, though he does give Jim the look that reminds him yet again that Bruce is going to be a _handful_ when he’s a teenager, god help Alfred—god help him, too, if he’s still around for whenever that happens. With the look, though, Bruce is getting to his feet, brushing off stray crumbs from his slacks before motioning for Jim to follow him.

Jim hesitates only a moment, thoughts scattering for a moment, before he’s getting to his feet and following behind Bruce. He finds himself taken to a part of the house he hasn’t been in before, hasn’t even really seen, though it is still nice. Simpler, yes, but still nice; recently upgraded, if the little touches he can see are anything to attest to. The rooms are a little smaller, the doors spaced more closely together than what he’d expect from the main part of the house, but still appointed nicely.

Bruce finally leads him to the last door at the end of a hallway, this one spaced quite a bit more than the others, but rather than knocking, he simply stops. There’s a solemn look on Bruce’s face as he search’s Jim’s for _something_. Something he can’t name, something that only the boy can see, and it’s uncomfortable to be under such scrutiny, especially when his thoughts are moving at lightspeed, for all that he’s standing still.

“I’m going to go clean up from lunch,” Bruce informs him, nodding to himself in satisfaction, having found _whatever_ it was that he was looking for. Doesn’t even give Jim a chance to answer, and he’s already halfway back down the hall before Jim can even think to say _thank you_. He huffs, rolls his eyes, grumbling softly under his breath.

But all he’s doing is stalling, and he knows it when he turns back to stare at the door. Everything is quiet beyond the door, at least as far as he can tell. Maybe he should come back; after all, what if Alfred were sleeping? The man needed to rest.

Rather than moving back, though, he finds himself moving forward, gently easing the door open to poke his head in. The room beyond is mostly dark, save for a little bit of light that seeps through the dark curtains. The room, what little he can make out in the dim lighting, is simple; clean. A simple double bed with a nightstand on each side near the single window, a long but heavy-looking chest of drawers across from the foot of the bed, and an overstuffed chair in the corner with a small table and floor lamp next to it. There are a few framed pictures on the dresser, but the room is otherwise bare.

Well, save for the slight lump that Jim can make out on the bed. The lump that belongs to a pair of eyes that he can see, even in the lack of light. It startles him when he realizes that Alfred is awake and staring at him, bemused—at least he thinks Alfred looks bemused—and very much aware that Jim is gawking in the doorway. Feeling more than what he would consider his fair share of being flustered, Jim slips into the room, closing the door quietly behind him, _refusing_ to break the silence first.

“You gonna just stand there all day, or’re you gonna come and sit so we can talk proper?” Alfred’s voice is rough with fatigue and pain, but amused all the same, the familiar accent settling something in Jim’s chest as he obediently moves forward further into the room.

He isn’t sure at first where to go, or what to do with himself, but he finds himself drawn to the bedside, unbidden in his movements. Up close, Alfred still looks pale, his hair sticking up in a few places from having been asleep. But the man is broad, solid, his chest rising and falling easily.

_Alive_.

Jim is startled from his thoughts by the feeling of a warm hand around his wrist, tugging at him, and he finds that he either has to sit on the edge of the bed or go sprawling over the injured man’s lap. At least he didn’t yelp when he finds himself sitting, settling with his leg curled slightly to be able to sit and look at Alfred, their thighs pressed together.

And Alfred hasn’t released his wrist, at all, the grip warm and sure and god, comforting.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he finds himself saying, voice soft. Even while he’s speaking, he doesn’t want to break the _silence_ , the closeness that seems to have built between them. Especially when he gets a lovely, warm caress to the side of his wrist for his troubles.

“Me, too,” Alfred muses in return, teasing, and it makes him feel slightly lightheaded to know that this could, quite possibly, be flirting.

Possibly.

“Damn sight better than being in hospital, too, innit? Somehow, think the nurses might have frowned a bit on this,” Alfred continues after the brief little pause, giving Jim’s wrist a gentle, comforting squeeze. “Though, did hear you slept in one of those godawful chairs?”

“Yeah,” Jim agrees, voice rougher than he wants it to be, chest tightening again. This time, this time he’s remembering. Remembering all too clearly what Alfred had looked like, hooked up with wires and tubes, remembers the sound of the machines. So many things he hadn’t wanted to admit, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge, like the way his own heart would spike when it seemed like the time between ‘beep’s was too long.

“‘m alright, now, yeah? Nothing to worry that pretty little head of yours over,” Alfred comforts, gently, and Jim finds that Alfred’s other hand is warm, too, as he wraps both of them around the hand that he’d captured to get Jim to sit down. Their hands fit together rather nicely, distracting him from the reminder of only a few short days ago.

“I have to tell you something,” Jim says, slowly, the words crawling their way out of his mouth and into the air, low and still rough, watching the way their hands fit together. Curious, wondering, enjoying the way their fingers tangle together. When he finally looks up into Alfred’s eyes, shadowed in the dim light of the room, but no less intense than normal, they’re gentle and sympathetic.

“Later; you look about ready to fall over, now,” Alfred tells him, shifting a little, slow and careful. He somehow manages to keep ahold of Jim’s hand, tugging the man with him further onto the bed. The whole move startles Jim, just as the tugging had a few moments ago, but just as with that movement, Jim goes easily. Finds himself, too, mechanically toeing off his shoes and loosening his tie with his free had, feeling suddenly, horribly, _inexorably_ exhausted. As though the weight of the past few days has finally come crashing down.

Or, rather, the stress has finally released its hold from him. Lee is safe, likely back at her apartment by now. The paperwork was done at the precinct, and there weren’t any open cases that he and Harvey had going. The hubbub from the press had died out. And now, here he was, beside Alfred, who was safe and warm and solid, holding onto his hand as though it was to keep Jim grounded. Reluctantly, though, Alfred lets his hand go and motions to his jacket.

“Best get that off, then. Lay it over the chair, if you like, but you’ll be more comfortable.” And it was an order, something that makes Jim want to glare over, would normally glare over—he’s a grown man, _thankyouverymuch_ —but finds himself chuckling in response to, instead.

“Yes, mother,” he chuckles, doing as he’s told, reluctantly getting up from the bed and moving to the corner where Alfred’s reading chair is located, laying his jacket and tie out. He also loosens the top few buttons of his collar, feeling a bit more like he can _breathe_ now that he isn’t being choked by it.

“Here, now, cheeky. If I had half a mind, you’d be sorry for that comment,” Alfred returns with no heat and all of the amusement. Unbuttoning the cuffs of his button up, shaking his head as he does so, Jim returns to Alfred’s side, this time sitting so his shoulder is pressed against Alfred’s, legs extended out in front of him, crossed at the ankle.

Even without seeing his face, Jim can tell when Alfred rolls his eyes.

“Hey, now. None of that. C’mon, let's lay down proper,” he insists, prodding a little at Jim, gentle and slightly weaker with his injured side.

“How do you want me?” the question is out before he can really think about it, think about the connotation of the words, and he has a whole beat to want to crawl under a rock and hide before Alfred is _laughing_ at him, only to gasp, hissing in pain. Cringing, Jim shifts to gently press his hand over Alfred’s against the wound that is still healing. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Laughter is the best medicine, or some such bullshit. Still, though; nice to laugh for once,” Alfred muses, the lines around his eyes easing. At least, the ones indicating physical pain.

Jim’s heart clenches and he can’t help but press his forehead to Alfred’s temple, not caring how uncomfortable the position is, with his shoulder crammed against Alfred’s and the headboard. All that matters is the warmth, the closeness, and the comfort that he can offer. He smiles softly when he feels Alfred’s hand carefully move from under his own, sliding up over his wrist and arm, holding him close.

“This’ll do nicely,” Alfred sighs, shifting down a bit to take some of the strain off his injured side, leaning back into a multitude of pillows. Shoving them a bit, in fact, towards Jim.

Chuckling softly, Jim shifts with the other man, the two of them moving as though they’ve done this together, before. He finds himself laying on his side, curled in toward the other man, his hand resting further up Alfred’s side, not over the man’s wound. Somehow, in the shifting, he’d ended up under the covers, and their legs tangled together even as they held onto each other.

“Sleep well, Alfred,” he murmurs, against Alfred’s cheek, unable to help himself from pressing his lips over stubble-y skin. All he gets in return is a soft, sleepy hum of contentment. It isn’t long before the two of them are fast asleep, curled together.

They’re still curled up around each other an hour later when Bruce comes to check on them. He lets them sleep, though, retreating almost immediately with a small smile.


End file.
